


another reason to bleed

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Decisions, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dubious Consent, Hell Trauma, M/M, Minor Crowley/Sam Winchester, Overprotective Dean, Post Demon!Dean, Rough Sex, Season/Series 10, Sibling Incest, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3682113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds out about Sam and Crowley. Dean puts a stop to it. But it's not as simple as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another reason to bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Something to hold when I lose my grip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2726255).
> 
> Huge thanks to nu_breed for beta-reading the first couple of partial drafts, any issues remaining are my own damn fault!

It's been a week since Dean was cured, but he's still not sleeping right. You'd think he'd be used to that. 

Tonight's no different than the night before, or the one before that either. He tosses and turns for a bit but it's no good. Two weeks ago sleep was easy, just like food and drink and drinking, just like sex. Just like killing. It was _all_ so easy. And now he's human again and everything is difficult. Again. 

He rolls to the side of the bed and gets up, thinking vaguely of a glass of water, a walk around just to check everything's okay. Scratching his belly softly, he heads out into the chilly corridor. It takes him two steps to realise that something's off - the hairs on the back of Dean's neck start prickling before he's even reached the next door down. Could just be paranoia, but Dean's lived this long by trusting it when his intuition tells him shit. He doubles back to his room to grab a knife, and this time when he steps into the corridor he heads straight for Sam's room. He'll make sure his brother's okay, get him tooled up too, and together they'll put whatever this is right. Just like they always do.

But when he goes to push Sam's door open - knocking's too loud if something's loose in their home, better to shake Sam awake with a hand - he hears a voice. Crowley's voice, telling Sam to kneel. 

'That's it, pet. No, properly. Be a good boy.'

There's the harsh sound of a slap, ringing in the quiet. Dean growls under his breath and tightens his grip on his knife. Sam makes a muffled noise, half-objection and half want. 

'Ah-ah. You called me, Moose. That means you do what I tell you. I'm the boss, just the way you want. So you're going to take this, and you're going to thank me for being so good to you. Aren't you. Or maybe this time I'll make you lick your mess off my shoes, hmm?'

There's something smug and seductive about Crowley's tone that stirs Dean's memory back a few years, to black hair and tight jeans and a leather jacket, promising Sam things with lies and sex. 

Ice pools in Dean's belly as he remembers. But equally something twists in him low down, hard and wanting, because those noises under Crowley's poison, those tiny grunts and gasps, those are sounds Dean knows from years of dark, quiet motel rooms and rustling sheets and never, ever talking about it in the morning. 

There's another smack, and Sam groans like a pornstar. 

Dean pushes at the door just a little, just enough to ease the hinge to a wider gap so that he can look through. Crowley has Sam on his knees in front of the bed, standing to one side, and is holding him by a fist knotted in the hair at the base of his skull. Sam's head is bowed, his bangs falling forward meaning Dean can't see his eyes, but he's naked and on his knees, and his cheek is glowing red. 

Dean's dick twitches in his boxers, and his stomach swoops like he's taken a speed hump too fast. 

'What do you say, pet?' Crowley asks. He nudges in the shadow between Sam's thighs with his foot. Sam hisses. 'Speak.'

'Please,' Sam says in a cracked whisper. 'More.'

Crowley slaps him again. 'Like this?'

'More.'

Crowley circles around behind him, dragging his head back by the hair, and reaches down his chest to pinch his nipple. He does it cruelly, and Sam sobs. 

'Pet?'

 _'More,'_ Sam says, straining against Crowley's hold on him. 'Fucking do it _properly_ if you're gonna do it -'

Crowley steps back then, takes his hands off Sam entirely, and Sam snarls. 

'I get to decide what you need, poppet,' Crowley says softly. 'Not you. That's the whole point. I think you need time to rethink your motivation.' 

He blinks out, gone, and Sam lets out a ragged whine of protest, slams his head on the mattress in front of him twice like he's angry, with himself, or with Crowley, or with what Dean doesn't know, but when Sam gets up he's still hard as a fucking rock and that's when Dean realises his brother wasn't tied up.

When Sam gets on the bed and starts jerking himself off like he has a grudge against his dick, Dean spins on his heel and makes a break for the bathroom. His stomach is churning so hard, he thinks he needs to hurl, but there's nothing in there to lose. Instead he just leans his forehead against cold porcelain and tries to think. 

Sam finds him still there in the morning. 

'Dude,' he says, squinting concernedly and poking Dean with his toe. 'Are you okay?'

Dean can barely look at Sam without seeing the phantom mark of Crowley's hand on his cheek. He knows it isn't there, but he can see where it should lie all the same. He wonders if Sam's nipples hurt, underneath that sleep shirt. 'Ate a bad burger,' he says, with a heartfelt groan into the toilet. It's completely on automatic, too - the lie, the acting, the whole thing. He says it before he even thinks about it. 

Maybe it's barely even a lie, at least compared to some of the ones he's told, but it twists Dean's guts anyway. He's supposed to be past this.

'I think we've got some dry crackers in the kitchen,' Sam starts, kneeling down to press the back of his hand against Dean's forehead. 

It's too much. 'No, that's,' Dean starts, but he can't bring up Crowley like this. Not on a fucking bathroom floor. Sam's gone already anyway, and then he's back, kneeling down with a cold face cloth and some crackers. 

Dean tries to grab for the cloth before Sam can actually start sponging his brow like he's an invalid, but he catches Sam's wrist instead, and Sam hisses in shock and pain. He tries to pull away, but Dean won't let go. He pushes Sam's sleeve up and looks at the ring of yellow-green-purple bruising, thin, sore, deep. Maybe a week old. Dean knows bruises like that. He's seen them on fucking _corpses._

'You let Crowley use zip ties on you?' asks Dean incredulously, without thinking.

'What the fuck, Dean?' Sam says in a shocked voice, slightly too late. 'What do you - _Crowley?_ '

Dean grits his teeth. 'Don't lie to me, Sam.' 

Sam stares for a split second, fight or flight tension winding, and then he snaps, sags. Shrugs. 'Guess it was naive to think I'm entitled to privacy,' he says, rolling his eyes. He's trying to play it cool but he's braced for a fight, trying to hold his body away from Dean, and it just makes Dean pull against him harder. 'How did you find out?' 

'Last night,' says Dean. He wants to rip Sam's PJ pants and sleep shirt off and check him over, because where there's one nasty little bruise like that there'll be more, sure as shit. What the fuck else did Crowley do? 'Got an eyeful I coulda done without. So, you wanna tell me what the fuck you're doing? That shit he was saying, about you wanting him to control you, the slapping around, that's not you. What was -'

'What do you know about what's 'me'?' says Sam, before Dean can finish. He's pissed, like this is some ordinary thing Dean's crossing a line over, like Dean doesn't have a right to ask fucking questions when there are demons involved. 'No, seriously. Who are you to fucking judge what I want in the sack? Can't I even have that anymore without you being all over my case about it?' 

'I -' Dean stops. 'Who the hell likes to get pushed around like that?' 

'I do,' says Sam irritably. 'But what does it even matter? You used to pick up chicks on jobs all the time and I never asked you what the hell freaky shit you were up to. And it's not like I'm making _you_ sleep in the damn car. Why do you even care?'

He can't be fucking serious. 

'I care when you start playing sex dungeon with the King of Hell!' Dean says before he can stop himself. 

There's a beat, a pause, and Dean knows he's fucked it up.

'Fuck you, Dean,' says Sam in a stone cold voice, and he's off the floor and out the door before Dean can do a single sensible goddamn thing.

***

By the time Sam gets back to his own room he's in such a towering rage that he grabs a book from the stack beside the door and throws it across the room. The mirror - _the_ mirror - gets in the way. Breaks. Glass shatters across the room, and now there's a mess for Sam to clean up and why, why is every single fucking thing he does always the wrong thing? 

He punches the wall, instead, which doesn't leave a mark because it's brick, not drywall, but shit it hurts. That takes things down a little. Sam shakes out his hand, wanting to make a call. Crowley wouldn't care about a broken mirror, or that Dean's mad. He'd just put Sam down and make him hurt until his brain stopped running around like a hamster in a wheel. 

Yeah, and what would Dean do, if he caught Crowley in here? What would Crowley do if Dean came in? What would Sam do?

Sam cleans up, is what Sam does. Dean is nowhere to be found and neither is the whiskey decanter when Sam goes to the kitchen for the dustpan and brush, so that's one mystery solved. Sam's pretty sure he can hear 'Going to California' through Dean's door, too, because his brother is a massive cock-rock cliche.

'I really gotta stop breaking mirrors,' Sam mutters to himself, sweeping up shimmering glass dust off the floor on his hands and knees. His shoulder twinges, reminding him he really shouldn't have taken off the sling as early as he did. In the pocket of his jeans, his phone buzzes briefly. Text message. Because his hands are full of broken glass, he ignores it. 

The reminder buzz goes off as he's emptying the pan into the trashcan, so he pulls it out, not sure what he's expecting. Not that many people even have his number any more, and most of the ones who do would only use it if they had to - panicked calls are more the kind of communiques he gets. Texts are for people who have friends. 

666 says _contract terminated. kindly tell your oversexed little guard dog that i am no longer pissing on his fencepost_

This time it's Sam's phone that bounces off the wall. At least there's nothing left to break.

***

'What gives you the right?' Sam snarls, Dean's bedroom door banging off the wall as he slams his way into the room. 'Where the fucking hell do you get off, Dean? 

'I'm sorry, I thought I was the guy that just got you out of yet another goddamn demon deal,' Dean retorts. He gets up, squares up to Sam because Sam's all big shoulders, huffing and puffing like a tomcat to make himself even bigger, the way he does when he's mad, and it's instinct to get in front of him, stop him before he gets himself into trouble. 

'It's not a deal! It was never a fucking deal! And you don't have the right to say when and where and who I have sex with!'

Sam looks tired. No, he looks exhausted. And angry. Yeah, well. Dean's exhausted and angry too, and he has a fucking right to be heard. 

'This isn't some no-name hookup, Sam. Fucking around with demons is never no-strings, you should know that. He's gotta be getting something out of it, I'm guessing something you don't want him to. You ever think about that? About why he's suddenly into you? Maybe it starts with slapping, but when does he start pulling a knife on you?'

'I was hoping soon,' says Sam sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest. 'C'mon, Dean, I'm not stupid. I can handle myself.'

'Goddamn bondage and sadomasochism _is_ stupid when you're a hunter and the thing tying you up is a fucking demon, Sam. Jeez,' Dean runs his hands distractedly through his hair, trying to find an argument. 'Couldn't you have found a chick with some silk scarves and a whip or something?'

He can see it as he's saying it, even - Sam all tied down, pretty colours, smooth skin. He'd make a hell of a picture. But the Sam in front of him looks anything but pretty and smooth. He looks feral, worked up, and almost too late Dean realises Sam's taking a swing. 

It's second nature, it's twenty five years of training, that has Dean countering the punch with a forearm and slamming his own fist deep into Sam's solar plexus. While Sam wheezes, Dean shoves him back up against the door, pins him, arms twisted up to nix his leverage, and gives him one final little shake like a dog with a rat. 

Sam glares at him, growls like a cat in heat, trying to buck Dean off, but against his thigh Dean can feel Sam's dick chubbing up, and fuck. Fucking Sam and his fucking junkie tendencies. Whatever this is, whatever it's doing for him, he's got it bad, and Dean doesn't like to think about it like this, but, well … when Sam goes off the rails, it's usually cos he's being pushed.

This isn't the first time Sam's used pain to check out of a situation, and whose fault is that, huh Dean? Who taught him that?

'Don't try and tell me you don't understand,' Sam says, fury banking to embers in his eyes. He's shaking. 'You know what it's like. Don't try and tell me you don't.'

His eyes meet Dean's again, full of something Dean doesn't want to name, something cold and broken and deep like the Pit. 'Get the fuck off of me,' he says. Dean must have slackened off, because suddenly Sam's hands are free and he's shoving Dean off him hard enough that Dean hits his bed spine-first and ends up on the bones of his ass on the floor.

'What are you gonna do?' Dean asks, winded enough that he doesn't get up. It's not like he could stop Sam if he wanted to walk, anyway. 

'Hunt, I guess,' Sam says. 'If that's the only thing I'm allowed to do to blow off steam.' He doesn't even close the door behind him. 

Dean hauls himself up off the floor and wishes like hell it was possible to punch yourself in the face for being a fucking idiot. He can guess what kinda hunts Sam's gonna find. They're not gonna be haunted teddy bears and teenage emo covens. No. Dean'll bet his baby he'll be stitching his brother up from hip to shoulder in forty-eight hours' time. Won't take Sam long to find a bloody corpse, a reason to put himself in harm's way. And he won't stop, either. He'll work himself into the ground. Sam with a point to prove is an unstoppable force.

Dean is not prepared to let that happen. Not when he has another option. No matter what that option is, no matter what it takes. 

If Sam needs something, Dean will give it to him. 

***

There are over a thousand newspapers in circulation in the United States. Not all of them run obituaries and not all of them have an actual useful online archive, but let's just say Sam has an extensive bookmarks bar. It doesn't take him long to zero in on some likely crimescene photos, fingers stabbing the keyboard like it somehow deserves it. 

He studies the pathologists' reports, looking at a body basically ripped open, deep slashes empty of blood now on the steel gurney. He tilts his head, considering. In his professional opinion, that is not the work of a frigging bear. 

A wendigo sounds like the kind of hunt he could use right now, something that needs focus. Something he can do right. Something that will get him ground into the dirt, pounded into hamburger meat, for a good reason. 

And if Dean finds him too fucking repulsive to be around, then Dean doesn't have to come. 

'Course, that's when Dean dumps a clanking duffle bag on the table beside Sam's laptop, and says, 'We gonna need anything in particular?' without making eye contact. 

'Flamethrowers,' says Sam, slamming the laptop shut. 

'Anything else?'

'Are we gonna have a problem, Dean?' Sam asks, staring at the back of his brother's head as he pokes through cabinets of Men of Letters stuff, probably trying to see if he can find an old-timey flamethrower instead of the jury-rigged propane cans they usually use. 

'You tell me, Sam,' Dean says, turning around in a big theatrical shrug. 'But if we're workin', then let's work, and then we won't have a problem.'

***

Dean slams the Impala into a dead, gravelly spin around a corner up a fucking forestry trail he has no right to be taking her up and manages to come to a halt in the right clearing just in time to see Sam duck a glancing, long-clawed blow and open up the flamethrower.

Sam's shirt is torn up all over and there's not enough light to see if he's cut seriously, but there's too much dark smeariness over the relative whiteness of cloth and Sam's skin for him to not be cut at all. Dean scrambles out of the car but by the time he gets to Sam's side the wendigo's on fire and Sam's triumphant, panting and sweating and _fucking bleeding down his face_.

This is the last time Dean lets Sam talk them into separating on a goddamn case.

'Hey Dean,' says Sam, grinning, high on blood loss and success. He wobbles where he stands. 

Dean grabs him by his stupid face and pulls his fingers through Sam's hair, trying to find where he's bleeding. 'Stay still, idiot,' he growls. ''less you _want_ this to hurt more than it does.'

The smoking wendigo corpse stops kicking, somewhere behind Dean. It stinks to high fucking heaven. Sam's got a scratch behind his ear that curves down around the contours of his skull, thin and weeping blood and fine as a hair. Surgical-grade claws on a wendigo. That cut's not too serious, so Dean moves on. 

There's a scoop of skin out of Sam's upper arm, raw and oozing, and his back and left hand side ribs are a red mottle that's gonna bruise like a bitch by tomorrow. There's the unmistakable lumps left behind by landing on rocks all over his shoulders. By the time Dean finds four more scalpel-like cuts over Sam's hip, he realises he's pretty much stripping his baby brother in the bleachy moonlight and Sam's panting under his hands, ribs hitching every time Dean hits a sore spot.

'Please,'' Sam breathes, eyes clenched shut. 'Dean, please.'

'Please what?'

'Stop,' says Sam, voice too high and trembling. 'Or ...'

Dean stills, one hand clamped over a throbbing, blood-hot scrape. 'Or what, Sam?'

But Sam can't say it. Can't ask. Family trait - give til you bleed, steal like you're owed, but never ask for what you want. He shakes in Dean's hands, and bites his lip, and waits for Dean to guess.

'You want this to hurt.' Dean says it bluntly, clenching his fingers til his nails dig in. He knows just how hard to push, too. He waits for Sam to look at him.

When he finally opens them, when Dean feels flesh give at his fingertips, Sam's eyes are round and dark and grateful. Dean shoves him into the goddamn car.

***

The road ahead of them is empty the whole way home and Sam's grateful, because it means no slow strobe of passing headlights to show him to himself in the wing mirror. 

He concentrates on his breathing, on the ache of the bruises settling into his skin, instead of the flickering hope and arousal, the _maybe_. But Dean, he just looks straight ahead, eyes locked on the road, and as the miles wind out, Sam realises this is just gonna be one more thing they sweep under the rug. Dean might know what Sam wants but that doesn't mean he's gonna give it.

Sam's all ready to slink out of the car and to his room, to pretend - but Dean pulls into the garage under the bunker and turns the keys and says 'Last chance to say 'uncle'.'

Sam shakes his head, mouth too dry for words.

Dean's hand is firm at the nape of Sam's neck as he pushes Sam into his bedroom - the same one Crowley relentlessly didn't fuck him in, the one with Sam's lack of belongings in it and that goddamn broken mirror he hasn't been able to get rid of. Dean must see him look at it, see him shiver, because he scowls and shoves Sam flat on his belly on the mattress. 

'You wanna look at something you can look at me,' he says, pulling Sam over onto his back and kneeling over him, hands going to his own jeans. Sam's mouth starts to water. 'Or else you can shut your fucking eyes.'

He sounds rough, it's a verbal smack, but Sam can hear Dean feeling his way into how to do this. It's not as polished as Crowley's effortless dominance but it's raw and it drags at levers low down in Sam's psyche, the drill sergeant tone borrowed straight from Dad. Dean wears it well. Soft and tousled in his dirty shirt but Dean's got the iron will of a general and Sam can't help obeying, fixing his eyes on what's in front of him, lowering his eyes to Dean's cock as he pulls it free.

Dean's hard for him. Saliva floods Sam's mouth, fear swamps his brain, because he wants Dean to make him choke on it and he's not ready for the part where it doesn't happen, where Dean pulls away. Because he will, of course he will. Crowley didn't let Sam touch him because he didn't trust Sam not to be a threat - Sam'll bet dollars to donuts Dean won't let him touch either. There'll be some reason - he thinks he's protecting Sam and he's gonna be gentle and not really give him what he wants, or he thinks Sam's gross, disgusting, a junkie who just needs some kinda sexual methadone and it's better if he gets it from Dean than from Crowley. 

Sam's always been a chore, and he knows it.

'You still want this, Sammy?' Dean asks, though, and his voice isn't soft but it's sincere.

Sam stares up at Dean, unable to find the words for how it doesn't matter if he wants it or not, does it? But he does. He noses forward, tries to get his mouth around Dean's cock before Dean can pull away, but Dean stops him with a hand in his hair. 

'Don't ask, don't get,' he says. 

Sam licks his lips. 'I - please,' he says. 

'Yeah, I bet he liked it when you begged, didn't he,' Dean says darkly. He tugs at Sam's hair hard. 'I said ask. Ask for it, Sam. Tell me what you want. Or tell me to stop. But don't fucking beg me. He wasn't worth begging for and neither am I.'

'Can I suck your dick?' Sam says haltingly, the crude phrase coming out easy cos it's a joke, isn't it? He must have told Dean to _suck my dick, oh my god go suck a dick, suck on it_ a million times, and Dean's told him the same. It's a dismissal, it means piss off. Like that Polish phrase, or whatever it is - 'not my circus, not my monkey' - it's not literal. 

Except now it is.

Dean pries Sam's mouth open with his fingers and pushes his cock inside. Sam's lungs empty on a sudden grateful breath for how well his brother reads him. Because Dean doesn't wait. Dean doesn't let him adjust. Dean just wraps his palms around the back of Sam's skull and slams into him until Sam's nose is buried in Dean's pubic hair. 

Sam's eyes roll back in his head, and his mouth floods with saliva. He gags. Dean strokes his cheek, but doesn't let up the pressure until Sam's vision starts to fuzz, then he pulls back. Sam forces his eyes open, tears spilling from the corners, and Dean's looking down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. 

'He told you that you like this because you're broken, didn't he?' Dean says, his dick resting on Sam's tongue. He jinks his hips just a little, Sam drooling around him. 'He was lying, Sam. I ever tell you about -' and he starts in on a story, a stupid sexcapade, the kind he used to tell when he was eighteen, twenty, twenty six, fresh from a hookup and desperate to brag, '- with a fucking wooden paddle, Sam. I mean, calling it spanking was like calling Jaws a goldfish, and she was wild for it, goddamn college professor for a day job and at night … whoo-boy.'

Sam breathes through his nose and lets Dean's words slide around him like his dick is sliding between Sam's lips. He loses time to the rich, musky taste, sour and strong, and the way Dean holds tight and hitches into him until his jaw aches and he's drooling, mouth slack. Getting fucked breathless, flat on his back, the angle between his mouth and his airway tight enough that Dean's dick can stop it up. Sam melts into the mattress underneath him as Dean fucks him into dizziness with hard, careful thrusts. Sam's injuries, blood dried sticky and holding his cuts closed, pull at his shirt and his skin.

When Dean pulls back finally it's an effort for Sam to open his eyes, even. He feels like he's in a trance, dazed and warm. Dean's cock slaps Sam's cheek, leaves a damp smear behind. 'You with me, Sammy?' he asks roughly. 

Sam swallows hard, trying to get his voice back. 'Yeah,' he rasps.

Dean tugs hard with his fist still wrapped tight in Sam's hair, hard enough that Sam thinks his scalp cut has opened up again. 'What do you want, Sam? Whatever you want. Anything. You just gotta ask.'

Sam's been hit and kicked and spat on, choked, handcuffed, slapped … none of it was this hard. His throat dries up, and he desperately tries to work moisture back into it. Asking for what he wants means leaving space to not get it. Easier not to ask. Easier to just take what he's given - but Dean's pulling away again. 'Fuck me,' Sam says, looking back up again, hating the part of him that still thinks this is going to get taken away, that can't trust. 'Fuck me, please, Dean. Please.'

'What did I say about begging?' Dean says, but his voice is low and pleased. 'Okay, Sammy. I gotcha.' He wriggles down Sam's body til he's kneeling between Sam's thighs. 'Want you to stay still for me, okay? I mean it. Not allowed to move, not allowed to touch. Be good for me, and I'll make it worth your while.'

Something in Sam lights up when Dean tells him _not allowed_ , and he forces himself down, flat to the mattress, while Dean unzips his jeans. He forces himself to stay down even when Dean kisses the sensitive tip of his dick and smiles like a wet dream at him.

'That's my boy,' says Dean, pressing Sam's thighs further apart, sliding the jeans down until they bind tight at Sam's knees, as good as rope. 'Hands where I can see 'em, yeah?' 

Crowley pushed. Dean pulls. That's the difference, Sam's realising, as Dean drags him to gasping, panting distraction. Dean sucks on his own fingers and works them into Sam's tight, clutching body, and yeah there's probably lube somewhere in this damn bunker but if Dean left to get it right now Sam doesn't know what he'd do and _god_ but that raw burn is working for him. Dean's mouth is red and wet, and Sam has to look down the length of his own body to see it. 

And then he has to look away, because the way Dean is looking at him …

There's a lot of mess in Sam's head, a lot of … of voices, not in the 'hearing voices' way (except sometimes) but just, all his fucking mistakes, they don't go away. Pain cuts through it but hurting himself is selfish when someone might need him, drinking just makes him maudlin and sleepy, fucking a civilian never ends well, and who the hell else does he have to turn to?

Dean's other hand pushes at the bruises on his hip, and he whimpers - _yes, please, want it_ -

'Got four fingers in you now, Sammy,' Dean rasps, and Sam knows, because it pulls at him in one of the few spots he has left that's still tender and unscarred. The stretch is enough to make him wonder if it'll bleed, if it'll tear, if Dean'll leave a mark there.

Fuck, it hurts, the push and pull, the crook of his brother's fingers inside him, finding how to make him talk. And Sam's cracking open, because this is when someone else would have pulled away, this is when someone else would have changed their tune, would have gentled him, would have denied him because there's no way he could want this, is there? Who wants this? Who the fuck could ever want this, this thing where it hurts so good that sweetness stings. Sam doesn't want any fucking thing but bruises and the only person who could ever put them there, could get inside him like this, the only person who's ever been able to really hurt him, is Dean.

Gentle's a lie you get told. That's why they say the truth hurts, as if that was a bad thing. It didn't hurt, in the Pit. That's what Sam remembers. It couldn't. They wouldn't let it. 

'I want you to fuck me,' says Sam thickly, bracing himself with flat feet on the bed, jeans pulling like a band around his knees. Dean claws at the old, paper-thin denim until it tears around the thigh seams, falls away like rags. Dean bites at Sam's skin as it's revealed, licks and sucks marks, and his hand is punching away, thrusting, thumb folded in and the widest part of his knuckles threatening, threatening - 

Sam wants that threat carried out. But more than that he wants it with a kiss, he wants Dean to taste him like this, to know. To remember. God, please, Dean has to remember what this is like, being out and the cold desperation of freedom, of never having to be forced again and not knowing how to ever _have_ again, because if Dean doesn't know, who else possibly ever could?

Sam looks down again, and his frantic eyes catch on Dean's mouth. The reason for that smeary wetness on the fine skin of his inner thighs. No chemicals. No toys. Nothing but them, and Sam doesn't realise he's been talking til Dean says 'Yeah, Sam. I gotcha, I gotcha, baby boy -' and he _shoves_ in, hard enough to drive Sam out of his spiralling head. 

'You can have this,' Dean breathes into Sam's hair when he's bottomed out, voice strained and tight. 'It's okay to want this. Just not like that, Sammy. Not from him.'

'From you?' Sam rasps, shaking. 

'From whoever the fuck you want, Sam. As long as they want you for you, as long as they're not playing you and telling you sick shit about how this makes you bad. You're allowed to have this, Sam. I don't care what you want or who you get it from, I just -'

Sam clutches at him, fingers digging into the hard, sweaty muscles of Dean's back, all the words fucked out of him. 'You,' he says. 'From you. Please, Dean.'

Dean wraps his hand around Sam's cock, and Sam's orgasm racks his body into a tight arc, twisted into shape around every place Dean's touching him, his dick jerking and spilling, burning hot over his skin. Dean shoves in brutally, welding himself deep into Sam's body before he lets go, blows his load with a breathless shudder. 

He's still shaking when he presses a shaky kiss to Sam's bruised-feeling throat. 'Yeah, Sammy. If you want me, you got me.'


End file.
